Confession of the Weary

A secret gnaws, a truth I must confess,

A spirit burdened, heavy with distress.

The Word neglected, prayer a fading call,

Where God would speak, I turn away from all.

 

A shock, perhaps, to those who know my name,

Yet truth it is, in this deserted space.

Not that I shun communion with the Lord,

Nor fail to live as Christ implored,

Nor shrink from sharing faith when chance arise,

I strive, though flawed, to walk the path of Christ.

 

Then why this void, this desolate neglect?

A fear resides, a message I expect.

I weary of obedience, voice unheard,

A lonely echo, every whispered word.

Not from the world, but from the hallowed halls,

The Church itself ignores the urgent calls.

A truth revealed, of vast and vital weight,

Unheeded, lost, a devastating fate.

This very thought churns within my soul,

A heavy burden taking its cruel toll.

 

My studies, teachings, feel like wasted breath,

I seek no pity, but a plea for apathy's death. 

Is this the bride?

The love of Christ, for which He bled and died?

Or something else, a hollow, shifting tide?

 

So much of ministry, a market’s guise,

Where self-gain reigns, and true devotion dies.

Investment hinges on a selfish plea,

“What can you do, dear friend, for me?”

Dissenting voices, challenging the norm,

Are cast aside, to weather the storm.

My bonds of ministry, a barren land,

A drought consumes, where fellowship once spanned.

Those deemed as kin, now strangers in the night,

Have left me stranded, in this fading light.

 

No pastor’s hand to guide, no mentor’s grace,

No confidant in this forsaken place.

The modern church, a mold I can’t embrace,

A far cry from the truth, the scriptured space.

A pioneer I stand, alone and lost,

While ritual and routine are held aloft.

The Sunday service, study, and event,

Have choked the life, the purpose God has sent.

The Church is busy, but it is not there,

Leaving me weary, in this lonely prayer.

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